Never Run from Anything Immortal
by Troll Princess
Summary: Two powerful strangers come to Sunnydale looking for the four people destined to help them defeat an evil faery queen.
1. Interlopers

[][1]

**Rating:** R for heavy-duty romance stuff and some old-fashioned violence.   
**Disclaimer:** I own Gwen/Gwyneth, Aidan, Mab (well, this incarnation of her, anyway), Sorscha, Auria, Gannon, and Dielo. Everyone and everything else is owned by God ... ahem, I mean Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy.   
**Distribution:** Knock yourself out. Just ask first, so I can peek. :)   
**Spoilers:** Up to and including "The Body." I'm also going to toss in the whole Dawn-raising-Joyce thing from "Forever," not to mention the bit where Spike is absolutely adorable, sweet and unselfish, to the surprise of everyone else. However, let's just forget that after-sex convo between Xander and Anya, 'kay? (But wasn't that just the most romantic thing out of Anya? Aww ...*g*)   
**Feedback:** Are you kidding? I love me some feedback. Why do you think I write fanfic? ;) (Well, mostly because it's fun, but feedback makes me feel all warm and squishy inside.)   
**Author's note:** This is based on an idea I had when I somehow managed to watch Labyrinth, The Last Unicorn (where the title comes from), and Merlin all in the same day. Oh, and to the person who asked me a while back if I had Xander naked in every story I wrote ... apparently so. ;) Oh, _and_ no worries, I'm still working on "Dry the Rain."   


**Never Run from Anything Immortal   
Chapter One:** Interlopers   
by Troll Princess

  
  
  


The young women and men standing outside the small pub in London were positive they had seen a ghost. A pale, perfect female ghost.   
  


She sped past them on foot, running as fast as her feet would carry her. Her long white hair whipped out behind her like a banner, tinged a faint purple in the moonlight. She was moving too fast to be human. No one seemed to notice.   
  


"You all right, miss?" one young man called out, putting aside his beer and trying to block her way.   
  


She dodged around him and kept going.   
  


They watched her race past, a few of the men fixating on her slim body, and then waited patiently for the evil fiend they were sure was not far behind.   
  


Any evil fiends in the area had obviously gone to sleep long ago, because the woman who rounded the corner couldn't possibly be the person the girl was running from.   
  


The woman, whose dark auburn curls swirled around her head in a glossy halo, could have been a goddess. She walked like slowly, gracefully, examining the patrons of the bar like funny-colored insects. Her black silk dress pooled at her feet like molten onyx, shimmering in the light pouring from the front window of the bar.   
  


And behind her, in the air, trailed a cloud of fireflies. Or at least, they looked like fireflies. They hummed. Fireflies did not hum.   
  


She stood before the crowd in all of her glorious splendor, and in a voice that sounded vaguely like hot air escaping from a manhole, asked, "Have you seen a rather pale girl run past here?"   
  


A burly bodybuilder-type stepped forward. "Why do you ask?" Ah, one of those blokes. Defensive to the last.   
  


The man who'd tried to stop the girl stepped forward and asked with true concern, "Did you see what she was running from? She looked terrified."   
  


The woman cocked a dark eyebrow and smiled. "Good enough."   
  


The hum intensified momentarily, and a few of the bar's patrons ducked inside, suddenly afraid that the fireflies were really some bastardized breed of bees or wasps or whatever that glowed due to radiation exposure, or some other rot. The cloud moved closer, and it was only then that the patrons noticed that the fireflies looked rather like ... faeries?   
  


The goddess waved a hand in the air and said, "Dispose of them."   
  


And with that, she walked away, leaving her subjects to do their dirty work. After all, she certainly didn't want to see it. 

When the pub was found not long after, there wasn't a single living soul on the premises. Or in the surrounding buildings, either.   
  


After all, when Queen Mab wanted something, it was done, and it was done well.   
  


  
  


**Two months later -- Sunnydale, California**   
  


Willow. Such a perfect name for the girl.   
  


He watched from the shadows outside her dorm, through the windows tinted rose from the interior light. From the ground, the view was awkward at best -- the auburn hair that glinted like tainted gold in the sunlight grew dark and shadowed after sunset, and was basically the only part of her he _could_ see clearly. Occasionally, a hint of a light blue short sleeve or a fluffy pink robe invaded his vision, but mostly, it was that unmistakable red hair.   
  


Beautiful. Just like her ancestor.   
  


His dragon green eyes shimmered in the moonlight as he drifted from shadow to shadow, trying to get a better view of her. Gwen would have his head on a pike if she found out he was here, stalking the Fourth like a common mortal. But he couldn't resist.   
  


She called to him like the scent of blood on a battlefield. Her mere existence in this realm was a beacon to him. The Hellmouth's darkness only served to amplify a beacon that would have been a simple annoyance otherwise.   
  


Well, the Hellmouth, and her association with the Slayer.   
  


Willow -- and the name rolled so well off the tongue, as well -- leaned out her open window for a moment that seemed to drag on forever. She inhaled deeply, absorbing the rich scents of the lilac bushes below and the fresh-cut grass on the campus grounds. He buried himself deeper in the shadows as she bent her head back, eyes closed, a sweet half-smile on her face, and whispered to the harvest moon above.   
  


Just watching her made him wish he could reveal himself to her now.   
  


Not that he could, of course. Lovely little prophecy and all, he had to resort to a felony. Well, sort of. He wasn't quite sure what stalking amounted to in the courts these days. His grasp of the American legal system was limited to when he'd had to defend himself against some bogus parking tickets.   
  


Actually, Gwen had done most of the defending. And a great deal of the following browbeating and guilt-tripping. Apparently, he still owed her a winter wardrobe, whenever it was that they returned to a climate that even _had_ a winter.   
  


Willow moved away from the window, and he felt safe enough to wander out of the shadows that the trees in the quad afforded him. Whispers came from the girl's dorm room, two female voices speaking quietly and then laughing softly. He thought he heard clothing being removed.   
  


And an instant later, the window abruptly slammed shut.   
  


No one had been standing by it.   
  


Aidan Blackwood frowned. Now, that ... that was something that caught him unawares. The Fourth should not be that strong already. Nowhere near that strong.   
  


It was a fairly safe bet that this would not go over well with Gwen.   
  


  
  


Gwen stared at him as if he had lobsters crawling out of his ears.   
  


Aidan had heard the saying in some old Christmas movie, and when the occasion suited, it came to mind. This, unfortunately, was one of those times.   
  


"You're joking."   
  


It was all she said, and not even with the tinge of humor he had hoped for. Pity. He had hoped for a night without a loud, rambling rant to silently suffer through.   
  


"Of course I am, love," he said as he shed his leather jacket and tossed it onto the nearest chair. "Tonight, for fun, I decided that I would tell you a very funny story about the Fourth and her deep involvement in witchcraft. I barely finished the story without a round of hysterical guffaws."   
  


He plopped down in the blue wraparound in the corner, getting himself comfortable on the other end of the couch as Gwen struggled to regain her thoughts. Bloody hell, did he love this couch. And most of the other things about this particular flat, as well. They'd been looking for an apartment with four walls, a ceiling, and a floor, and had succeeded much better than they had in some larger cities.   
  


Finally, after an agonizingly long moment during which Aidan was sure he was about to be verbally skewered, Gwen did what she always did when she wanted to refrain from a long-winded yapping session. She closed her eyes, took a deep, cleansing breath, and dragged both hands through her waist-length, white-blond hair from root to tip.   
  


"Well, we knew she dabbled," she finally said.   
  


"Of course."   
  


"But strong enough to telekinetically close a window from across the room?" Gwen's lavendar eyes darkened as her annoyance grew. "Hell, most witches are lucky if they can get past lifting a pencil up in midair!"   
  


And with that, she began to pace. Aidan groaned as he closed his eyes to the world ... or, more aptly, to the room he was in. Gwen pacing was never a good thing. With some people, it served as prime venting. With Gwen, it only got her dander up.   
  


"She has had extensive practice, love," he said. "Living on the Hellmouth, hanging with a Slayer ... should be bloody lucky the Watcher files say she's only a level five."   
  


She laughed at that, a disgusted snort he was all too familiar with that said, in not so many words, that she was surprised his mother had had any children who lived. "The Watcher files are a joke, Aidan. Ten pounds says she picked a number out of thin air just to shut them up."   
  


"True," he said. She had a point, and looked as if she knew it. "Last time I spoke to 'em, they asked me for scale samples."   
  


"What did you tell them?"   
  


"That they could take their request and stick it in a few very uncomfortable places. Even made 'em a list."   
  


Gwen quieted momentarily, then sat down beside him, staring thoughtfully at the opposite wall. "Why didn't I say that?"   
  


"Because, love, if I'm guessing right, they asked for horn shavings, and you snuck into another room and gave them a bag of frozen white chocolate flakes that you dusted with silver glitter."   
  


She squirmed and burrowed deeper into the couch. "It was mozzarella, actually," she muttered, then tried to change the subject. "What about the Third?"   
  


"She went out bloodsucker hunting a few hours earlier. I lost her on Revello Drive."   
  


"She lives on Revello Drive, moron."   
  


Aidan frowned. She should know better than anyone that his kind did not do surveillance well. They barely managed sitting still for long periods of time, for crying out loud. "I was hungry. I needed a steak."   
  


"So where is it?"   
  


He smiled as he said, "I ate it in the car on the way over here." Her responding gag made his smile grow. He couldn't help it. He loved getting on her nerves. It was better than Disneyland. "So, when do we start this?"   
  


"Tomorrow," Gwen said. "I'm sneaking into a poetry class with the Fourth."   
  


"Poetry? You hate poetry."   
  


"I hate reading it. Writing it's not so bad. Any moron these days can string a bunch of meaningless phrases together and call it art. I can pass. And as I pass, I prophecy." She smiled and spread her arms out wide like a game show hostess displaying a Winnebago. Of course, what she had on hand to display was infinitely better than a Winnebago.   
  


She had the occasional prophetic vision on her side. He had the world's worst case of halitosis. When they'd been handing out things on the other side, he must have made a bloody wrong turn somewhere. It was unfair, it was.   
  


Here they were, having to save their respective asses, and all they had to go on was her visions, his pyromania breath, and four innocent mortals who had no clue what they were about to get involved in.   
  


Gwen recognized the look on Aidan's face, the sadness, the unfairness of it all reflected in those odd green eyes of his. Immediately, her hand slid across the couch to grab his, and their fingers intertwined, until the only way to tell them apart was the paleness of her skin against the golden brown of his.   
  


"How can you be sure this will work?" he asked softly.   
  


She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead, then bent down until their foreheads rested against one other. "It has to, love. It's the only chance we have left for survival, isn't it?"   
  


He nodded gently. She was right. If they screwed this up, they'd be dead, good and proper.   
  


And so would the Four. 

   [1]: 



	2. The Difference Between Slaying and Thera...

[][1]

**Never Run from Anything Immortal   
Chapter Two:** The Difference Between Slaying and Therapy   
by Troll Princess 

This was no -- **kick** -- freaking -- **gut punch** -- fair!   
  


Buffy Summers, Sunnydale's resident vampire Slayer, spun around and delivered a roundhouse kick into the face of the nearest vampire. She'd been fighting these stupid jerks for the past ten minutes, and she _still_ hadn't gotten all of her frustrations out.   
  


Hell, God knew she could have staked these weaklings in seconds, but she needed to vent, and there was nothing like --   
  


"Uh, Buff? I know it goes to eleven, but do you really have to turn it all the way up like that?"   
  


-- kicking a few vampire asses for stress management.   
  


"Poor vampires. Look at 'em. I think she gave that one a noogie."   
  


Buffy grabbed onto one of the vamps and threw him onto the spiked iron fence of the graveyard before turning around and flashing her best friends a warning glare. Willow and Xander were supposed to be in the middle of a spell to deal with the demon who'd gotten these loser bloodsuckers under his control, but apparently they were already done, since the demon was presently frozen, statue-like, in the center of the graveyard.   
  


Willow and Xander, meanwhile, were finishing off a bag of kettle corn as they watched the show. The vampire Buffy had stuck to the fence was just yanking himself off the stupid thing when Buffy brought the stake in her hand down into his chest.   
  


He was exploding into DustBuster food right about the time she was decapitating the last two vampires with the ceremonial sword the demon had brought to the party. Seemed only fair, really. The demon had been planning to use it on the vamps anyway for whatever this ritual was.   
  


Not that Buffy cared. Although ... oh, perfect ... there was a huge grass stain on her new blue shirt. Just wonderful.   
  


It was official. Minions sucked.   
  


She brushed the dead vamp dust off her pants and faked a smile for her best friends. "There. All done. No more walking, talking, blood-drinking dustbunnies."   
  


Willow and Xander exchanged a worried look as Xander handed Willow the bag of popcorn and walked over to Buffy. "Color me crazy here, Buff, but wasn't that just a little over your usual kill?"   
  


"No," she said, a little too vehemently. Oh, great. Now they'd think she was pissed at them. Which she wasn't. Generally pissed, yes. Specifically at them, no.   
  


_Think, stupid, think!_ Her mind a blank, Buffy blindly pointed towards one of the dust piles on the ground. "He was asking for that. He groaned."   
  


Aw, hell, even Xander and Will weren't buying it. Then again, she wasn't buying it, either.   
  


"He groaned," Willow said.   
  


"Yes, he _groaned_. I knocked him over and he yanked me down with him and when I fell on top of him, he groaned."   
  


"So?"   
  


"Do I need a vocabulary book here, Xander? He practically said I was fat."   
  


Okay, so it sounded cheesy and girly. But since Buffy barely ever got to do girly stuff -- unless you counted killing vampires girly, which she didn't -- it was as if all the unexpressed girly stuff in the back of her head suddenly flooded out in one extremely goofy-sounding statement. Now it was time to blush accordingly.   
  


Xander could tell she was grasping at straws, trying to avoid the real issue, so it was time for some serious, big kid talking. "Okay, we're not on Mars. Therefore, unless gravity suddenly increased and we didn't notice, you're not fat. And you're not fat, anyway, so I'm going to go with Door Number Two and say you're venting."   
  


"I'm venting," Buffy said, as if trying to get herself to believe it.   
  


Willow nodded enthusiastically. "Yup. Definite venting there. Especially with the noogie and all."   
  


Xander got Buffy's attention and did that friendly meeting-her-gaze thing. "With your mom, and Dawn going all Pet Semetary with your mom ... you're just venting."   
  


Oh, that did it.   
  


He could see her squirming under his stare. He wasn't surprised. Burying Joyce had been bad enough. They'd all felt like they'd lost a mother, to be honest. But afterwards, when Dawn had tried to raise her mother, it just hadn't been pretty.   
  


And here was Buffy, being all superhero-y, trying to keep Dawn around so that she could protect her from Glory and still sticking with the whole Slayer gig every night _and_ managing to keep a SuperGlue-assisted grasp on what little sanity she had left.   
  


Buffy nervously tucked her hair behind her ears as she offered Xander a smile. A weak one, but at least this time, it was genuine. "What can I say? It's cheaper than therapy."   
  


She looked away, a little embarrassed to have gone nuts like that, but got distracted by a movement she spotted out of the corner of her eye. Something flittered in and out of the graveyard's lush bushes, a shimmering, darting bug-like thing with iridescent wings -- oh, wow.   
  


Was that a faery?   
  


Buffy moved a bit closer to where she'd seen it last. "Did you see that?"   
  


"See what?" Willow asked, looking towards the spot Buffy was pointing at.   
  


"The --" Oh, yeah. That's exactly what they needed to hear out of her, especially now. Besides, it probably was just her coming down off the slaying high or something. "Never mind. I must have left my sanity in my other pants or something," she said, before turning back to the demon. "So what are we supposed to do with this guy again?" 

"Hey, Giles. Guess what I found."   
  


Oh, God. That was never good.   
  


In the past, when Giles had heard that particular phrase out of Buffy, it had preceded the presentation of, among other things, three rather noxious horns off a Klever demon, a severed arm, a pair of dead cats marked with a symbol indicating yet another end of the world, and Faith. So far, he had yet to like any time that Buffy said that phrase.   
  


This time was no different.   
  


Giles rose from behind his kitchen counter with a colander in his hands just as Buffy plopped the still-quivering blue-green brain of a Yex demon onto his countertop. The disapproving look that flashed in his eyes made Buffy wince. He'd been getting the colander out specifically so that he wouldn't be scrubbing blue-green Yex blood -- that stained badly -- off his countertop for the rest of this night.   
  


Hmm. Pity.   
  


Placing the colander down on the counter next to the brain, Giles frowned and said, "Oh, how wonderful. I'll be sure to add this to my collection of oozing, pungent demon brains."   
  


"You have a collection?" All eyes turned to Willow, who instantly blushed bright pink and said, "Sorry. I just ... wouldn't be surprised, actually."   
  


Giles gingerly swiped the brain into the colander with a tea towel as he watched Buffy out of the corner of his eye. The last few weeks had been hard on her, and it showed in the dark circles under her eyes. She looked as if she was going to pass out where she stood, more from mental fatigue than physical. Somewhere between Spike's twisted affections, Glory coming after Dawn still, and Hank's rather ridiculous attempt to prove himself a model parent and regain custody of Dawn, Buffy didn't need a lack of sleep to look like hell.   
  


Although if what Dawn had told him the other day was true, sleep and peace of mind were two things lacking from Buffy's current situation.   
  


Giles caught her hazel-eyed gaze and tried to give off a wave of concern in her direction. "Are you all right, Buffy?"   
  


She smiled, barely making him feel better. Willow and Xander's identical expressions of worry didn't help, either. "Yeah. Sure. I'm a crying-on-the-inside kind of clown. What I need tonight is just some peace and quiet, not to mention a pint of Chunky Monkey and a round of 'The Weepiest Movie I Own.'"   
  


"Oh, that reminds me! Here." Xander walked over to the table behind Giles's couch and grabbed a videotape that he'd left there earlier. He handed it to Buffy, who cocked an eyebrow in a silent question. Xander shrugged uncomfortably. "Anya said, and I quote, 'I don't get it. The hunter was hungry. Why am I supposed to cry again?'"   
  


Buffy sighed as she stuck "Bambi" in her purse. "At least she cried at 'Terms of Endearment.' And during that Hallmark commercial with the old lady across the street. So she's getting better at this whole being-a-girl thing."   
  


"She's had two years," Willow said softly. "I know we're complicated, but we're not that complicated."   
  


"Can we talk about the matter at hand for at least a fraction of a second?"   
  


All eyes turned to Giles, who was in the middle of putting the colander and its rather raunchy-smelling contents into the sink. Looking not the least bit embarrassed, the three of them headed into the kitchen and surrounded Giles.   
  


"Okay," Buffy said, before pointing at the brain in the sink. "Eww."   
  


"Yes, very," Giles said.   
  


Willow looked up at him curiously. "What are you going to do with it?"   
  


With the same dry wit he reserved for the more useless questions he received, Giles returned Willow's gaze and said, "I'm going to use it as my Easter dinner centerpiece."   
  


Xander squirmed on the other side of him, clearly disgusted. "Great. Now I won't be able to look at the ham the same way."   
  


"It's going to be properly destroyed, of course." And with that, Giles flipped on the hot water and sprayed it directly on the brain. It sizzled in the colander, fizzled briefly like a dying firecracker, then dissolved like so much sugar candy and flowed through the holes and down the drain.   
  


Well, that was ... anti-climactic. (For everyone except Giles, of course.)   
  


Xander leaned forward, examining the sink as if he'd find itty bitty brain parts stuck inside Giles's "Kiss the Librarian" mug or something. "That's properly destroyed? Shouldn't there be a spell or a Ginzu knife or something remotely resembling a Molotov cocktail involved?"   
  


Giles just glared at Xander. "You've been spending too much time with Buffy, Xander."   
  


"What's this?"   
  


Giles turned around at the sound of Willow's voice carrying in from the living room, chiding himself for not even noticing her disappear from his side. He took note of the manila envelope and newspaper clipping in her hand and frowned. "Oh, that. An old friend of mine sent that to me -- Carl Wainwright. I knew him in college. He said it might behoove me to know about it. I don't see why, though."   
  


Buffy, who'd sidled up beside Willow to look at her find, glanced over it quickly. "'Dozens Die in Unexplained Mass Murder.' Um, maybe he wants you to bone up on your bodies-in-big-piles crimes?"   
  


"Quite," he said, as he walked up behind the two young woman and plucked the newspaper clipping from Willow's hands. His gaze drifted to the clock on the wall, and he glanced around at the other three Scoobies. "Don't you have jobs and school in the morning?"   
  


Buffy pouted playfully and elbowed Willow. "Yell at him for me, Will. He ruined my temporary amnesia."   
  


The girls exchanged a smile before the trio of young people said their goodbyes and departed hastily. As soon as they did, Giles let loose a sigh of relief.   
  


And quickly went back to studying the newspaper clipping for clues. 

  
  


This close, and she couldn't touch them.   
  


The First lived in a quaint little apartment complex, teeming with plants and wildlife. A handful of her subjects had already infiltrated the grounds, the lush greenery decorating the complex's fountain area now infested with mirthful, silly faeries.   
  


The fact that they were tiny, ruthless killers had never diminished the whole silly faery bit.   
  


She watched from the shadows as the Second, the Third, and the Fourth exited the flat, making small talk. As soon they entered the light pouring down from one of the outdoor spotlights, she inhaled sharply.   
  


My, they were the destined ones, weren't they?   
  


The Second was a virtual copy of Dielo, his lazy, friendly swagger, his quirky, handsome smile, the bright brown eyes. The same could be said for the Fourth, whose soul shimmered just as Sorscha's once had, her innocent face and glossy red hair an exact replica of the pesky elf.   
  


The Third, meanwhile ... she _was_ Auria. Well, minus the glistening dragonfly wings.   
  


Her most loyal subject. Her closest friend. Her most lethal assassin.   
  


She merely smiled and hissed, "Soon," as the trio passed by. The Third lifted her head slightly, barely hearing the voice, but hearing it just the same.   
  


Well, well ... the Blood was strong in this one. It was strong in many, of course. Some Bloodlines were just lucky that way.   
  


But this one was obviously Auria's Chosen. And with the strength of her Bloodline, she could easily manipulated.   
  


Not, thought the red-headed woman blending into the shadows, that she could control the Third just yet. If she took the Third now, got her under her thrall while she was unspelled, the spell itself would not work on her when the other two showed themselves and performed it. And if the Third was not there, the others would not perform the spell.   
  


So close to grabbing them and killing them outright, but she had to wait.   
  


The woman sighed and vanished into the shadows. Soon. It would be soon. 

   [1]: 



	3. Prophecies, Poetry, and Petty Theft

[][1]

**Never Run from Anything Immortal   
Chapter Three:** Prophecies, Poetry, and Petty Theft   
by Troll Princess 

  
  


Willow wanted to take notes in the worst way.   
  


She did. Her hand itched and her blue pencil was just sitting there on her desk, all sharpened and unused, waiting for someone to pick it up and write something.   
  


But she couldn't, because Miss Fleming didn't give notes.   
  


She didn't have books. She didn't have workbooks. She didn't even have something remotely resembling a syllabus. It was all talk about emotions and the way words played off one another, and after a few weeks of it, it was really starting to give Willow the wiggins.   
  


This was just ... wrong. It was unconventional teaching. Classes required notes. Actual notes. And research. What was that thing the teacher had said on the first day? "Write whatever you want and are willing to present to the class." That's what this _teacher_ had said.   
  


Whatever you want? Whatever you want? There had to be a least a little more to it, right? A little more structure to the assignments? If there even were assignments. Willow had been terrified that Miss Fleming really did expect you to hand in whatever you wanted and would end up accepting grocery lists and resumes at the end of the semester. And what was going on with the due dates? Were there even due dates? Please?   
  


Willow just couldn't help it. She knew she'd been dying to try out this creative writing class at first, but it was so ... random. She liked a little organization in her school stuff. 'Cause she went home and rejoined the Scoobies and suddenly it was randomness all over the place. School -- organized, structured school -- was the one solid thing in her life. Well, aside from Tara.   
  


That pencil was still staring at her.   
  


She had to write _something._ It was driving her nuts. Edgy, she reached out and wrote, **Give me the child. Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City to take back the child that you have stolen, for my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom is as great. You have no power over me.**   
  


There. She felt better. She had written something with that stupid pencil. And she'd had to get that out of her head anyways. The gang had gathered at Xander's on Saturday night for popcorn and a movie, and it had been someone's genius idea to watch "Labyrinth," one of the few movies she knew by heart. That whole speech had been running over and over through her head for the past two days.   
  


"Come on, gang, any takers?" Miss Fleming walked up the aisle, her flowing black skirt and overpowering sandalwood perfume drifting past Willow as the professor passed her desk. "I know you lot. Some of you show up on Mondays cuddling every piece of prose you ever wrote to your breast as if it were made out of silver and gold."   
  


There were a few laughs at that, from the non-English majors, obviously. The ones who showed up in a lot of Willow's lit classes arguing that a story was just a story, and that trying to explain how "The Wizard of Oz" was an essay on the Depression-era Dust Bowl farmer was like trying to explain the political significance of a rutabega.   
  


"Anyone? Anyone?" Miss Fleming droned. More laughs. "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" had been on TNT all weekend long.   
  


There was a slight pause, and Willow fully expected Miss Fleming to send them on their merry way. But an instant later, a voice tinged with a British accent, delicate and melodious, said, "I have something I could read."   
  


"Thank God," Miss Fleming said, sitting on a desk not far behind Willow. "Go on."   
  


Willow thought about turning around in her seat, but something told her not to. Just to listen, and let the words flow over her like a gentle, healing spell. So she did.   
  


**I saw you last night,   
although I know it's impossible.   
Your image was hidden in shadow,   
so much so that   
I almost didn't recognize you.   
But you laughed when you saw me,   
and then I knew you.   
You wrapped your arms around me,   
and I forgot my troubles,   
and only remembered you.   
We played for a while,   
thought about our fun,   
and you faded.   
You started to disappear,   
like a ghost,   
leaving slowly enough to drag out the pain.   
And then you were gone.   
Now I want you back,   
because I saw you last night,   
although I know it's impossible. **   
  


Willow could barely bring herself to open her eyes again. It was a beautiful poem, or at least she thought so. And just hearing it had raised visions of Oz in her head.   
  


She glanced quickly around the room, and noticed that a few of the other students had reacted to the poem as she had, their memories drifting back to someone they'd lost that they wouldn't mind getting back. A couple of students exchanged embarassed smiles as they wiped away tears.   
  


It wasn't the words, so much as it was the voice of the woman who'd been reading them. Her voice was music, warm and sweet, fresh honey set to song that poured over their souls and set their emotions humming.   
  


It was ... magick.   
  


Willow slowly turned to stare at the young woman who'd been reading, a transfer student presumably, at this point in the semester. Something told Willow even before she saw the girl that there was magick in her. Power resonated from the girl like a heat wave off her pale flesh. Her white-blond waves hung loose around her face, a curtain of off-white barely hiding a pair of tilted lavender eyes. Several silver rings and a horseshoe-shaped bit on a choker accented her light green tank top and tan pants. Draped across her desk was a brown suede duster, a patchwork design evident even from this far away.   
  


But even as Willow took in every aspect of this strange girl's world, her gaze never left the girl's. Even as she felt the girl reining in the power that Willow could feel emanating from her.   
  


"Well, that took some courage," Miss Fleming finally said, after she had managed, like the rest of the class, to return to reality. "You read beautifully, my dear."   
  


The girl nodded, a little embarassed, and quickly sat down before the rest of the class started adding their own agreement to the professor's. She glanced up and her odd, violet gaze connected with Willow's. The girl started and quickly glanced away.   
  


Huh. That was weird.   
  


Willow merely stared. Something really strange was going on with that girl, and Willow was dying to find out what.   
  


She was so curious for a little gossip on the new girl that she didn't notice the poem that suddenly appeared, as if from invisible ink, in her notebook. _I saw you last night, although I know it's impossible ..._ popped up in vivid blue-silver lettering.   
  


The girl grinned to herself, a soft, gentle smile, and Willow watched her leave as Miss Fleming dismissed the class.   
  


Yup ... definitely strangeness afoot.   
  


What a bleeding nightmare.   
  


Aidan, for lack of a better phrase, despised magick shops with an unholy passion. Magick was what had gotten him and everyone he loved into this situation in the first place, and he'd spent nearly eight hundred years wishing magick had gone out of fashion with the Canterbury Tales and the plague.   
  


So, enter Sunnydale. Which apparently had turned witchcraft into the official town hobby.   
  


The place had been packed not long ago, but after a few minutes, the customers had started to file out until Aidan was the only one left in the shop. And he meant that literally -- there wasn't even a counterperson in the place.   
  


Well, there had to be _someone_ here. Clearing his throat, he yelled, "Excuse me? Is there someone in this joint who could help me?"   
  


A feminine voice called out from the back room. "I'll be with you in a minute! Please don't steal anything!"   
  


Aidan thought on that for a second, then frowned. "Bugger," he muttered, then slipped a pewter statue of Mab back where he'd found it on one of the nearby shelves. Damn. The old bird probably would have liked that.   
  


Hey, wait a minute ... that voice had sounded awfully familiar ...   
  


A moment later, a stack of boxes with an amazing set of legs and a pair of hands sporting an expensive manicure walked out of the back room and promptly plopped itself down behind the main counter. Another moment later, a petite blond woman rose up from behind the boxes and scowled at them as if they'd committed an egregious faux pas and would immediately be put to a bloody, painful death.   
  


"This is all wrong," she muttered, wiping her dusty hands on her skirt. "Men are supposed to carry boxes. I've seen it in movies. I don't care what Xander says ... if it happens in movies, it has to be --"   
  


This was followed immediately by her shrill scream at the very sight of him, and the shatter of something glass and probably dangerous as she backed up against the shelves behind her and knocked off several knickknacks.   
  


"Please don't set me on fire!" she yelped.   
  


Oh, how bloody wonderful. She must have recognized the eyes.   
  


Aidan squinted and took a good look at her. Then moved closer and took an even better look.   
  


Aw, hell. It couldn't be.   
  


"Anyanka?"   
  


After a rather confused moment, she nodded her head weakly. Then, she also moved forward and squinted. "Aidan?"   
  


He nodded, completely flustered. He had not expected a vengeance demon to be working in ... ugh ... retail.   
  


Aidan also didn't expect it when Anyanka squealed and raced around the counter to give him a good, tight hug. Uh-oh. What was he supposed to do? His mind went blank as he rather stupidly patted her on the back. The last time he'd seen her, she'd been putting the whammy on some stupid git who'd cheated on his wife with a barmaid.   
  


The wife's wish was that her husband would be eaten by a dragon. The fact that a dragon might not _want_ to eat her bloody husband had apparently slipped past her.   
  


But Aidan certainly couldn't hold that against Anyanka. Even if that sod had given him indigestion.   
  


"What are you doing working in a magick shop?" Aidan asked, for a lack of anything better to say.   
  


Anyanka released him and looked a little sheepish about the whole retail thing, then gave him a friendly punch in the arm. "What are you doing wearing that thing, huh?"   
  


It took a moment to realize that she was asking him what he was doing in human form. He feigned shock as he held out his arms. "What? Human bodies are the latest fad, or so I'm told." He laughed before he could recognize the strange scent wafting into his general direction.   
  


It wasn't vengeance demon. It was good, old-fashioned human girl. Good, old-fashioned _aroused_ human girl.   
  


Ooo ... that might come in handy.   
  


He leaned forward and tucked an errant lock of blond hair behind her ear, and she shivered, thought she tried not to. "Looks like you follow the trends yourself."   
  


"Not reluctantly," she said, although it was with a friendly smile. "Although now I'm in a very happy relationship with a mortal. He's got a job. And an apartment. And he's a stallion in the bedroom." 

Aidan tried not to tense at the mention of the Second, but he doubted he'd covered very well.   
  


"So, what are you doing on the Hellmouth?" she asked.   
  


He wandered over to a nearby shelf and filtered through a stack of well-worn scrolls. Oh, these wouldn't do. They were all in Greek. "Would you believe joining a convent?"   
  


Anyanka ignored his teasing and kept talking. As usual, for her. "So, where's Gwen? Isn't she supposed to be following you around and telling you what to do?"   
  


He rolled his eyes at that. "Give her an hour. She'll have me on a leash again in no time," he said, sifting through the scrolls at the bottom of the pile. Greek, Roman, Greek ... Aramaic? "Don't you lot have a faery scroll?"   
  


Without missing a beat, Anyanka reached forward and yanked open the drawer under the shelf he'd been perusing, shocking the hell out of him. A rainbow of small, thick scrolls greeted his eyes. Anyanka presented them to him with a dramatic flourish. "We have six. Do you want it in lavender, chartreuse, mango, blueberry, mint or eggshell?"   
  


They had them in bloody _colors_ now? Aidan sighed. This was going to take a while.   
  


Another postcard from that monastery in the Alps. What was it with Oz and isolated cold mountain ranges?   
  


Willow flipped it over and read the message on the back. Like everything Oz usually said, it was short and sweet. Miss you, wish you were here, give my love to Tara, yadda yadda. Willow couldn't help but smile gratefully at that last bit. Oz had been sending her postcards ever since he'd left for the last time, knowing she'd worry if she didn't hear from him. And he always ended his postcards with, "Give my love to Tara."   
  


A more gracious loser in the Significant Other Games had never been born.   
  


Willow tucked the postcard back into her purse and sighed happily. Oz might not be her boyfriend anymore, but he was definitely one of her best friends. That shy little sixteen-year-old she'd been in high school who'd spent so much time drooling over Xander would have been shocked to learn she'd have a werewolf love her so much, even after the hell she'd put him through.   
  


She probably would have been even more shocked to find out the future Willow would sort of, kind of, throw over a cute guitarist for a _girl_. A sweet, wonderful, loving girl beyond all belief, but a girl just the same.   
  


As Willow walked towards her dorm, thinking about Tara and the quiet night in "studying" they were supposed to have tonight, a fleeting memory of meeting her doppleganger drifted through her head. She vaguely remembered saying something along the lines of, _That's me as a vampire? I'm so evil, and skanky... and I think I'm kinda gay._

She laughed softly to herself. _Oh, honey, you have no idea._

Willow's gaze absently drifted to the thick patch of bushes that had been planted around the circumference of Stevenson Dorm as she headed towards the front door.   
  


It was then that Willow tripped.   
  


She tripped because of the face of the man she was sure she'd seen in those bushes. Her books fell from her arms as she glanced quickly around, a little embarrassed but not quite as embarrassed as she would be if that were really ...   
  


"Oz?"   
  


It was him.   
  


It was really _him_.   
  


But he'd said he'd be in Tibet for months. He'd made sure she'd know. He'd even given her a phone number he could be reached at in case of a really big, Sunnydale-sized emergency.   
  


He smiled at her, and seemed to drift out of the bushes like a specter. This was too strange. It couldn't be happening. It was all wrong.   
  


"Oz? Is that really you?" she asked, her voice quiet. She was crying, and she hadn't even meant to. What the hell was she doing?   
  


Oz said nothing, as usual. He just moved closer and closer until his body was mere inches away. Willow ignored the passersby walking around her, the pounding sound of Jimmy Buffett coming from a fourth floor room, the UC Sunnydale marching band practicing badly on the other side of the campus.   
  


She only felt the heat of him, so near, so close she could hardly bear it.   
  


But she didn't love him. Not like that.   
  


Even as he bent to kiss her, his lips mere inches away, Willow ducked away and stared at the sidewalk. "Oz, I-I can't. I'm in love with Tara. I can't kiss you like that."   
  


Oz smiled at that, drifted away from her, then lifted her hand to his lips and gently kissed her as gentleman. She couldn't contain how she felt about the sweet gesture, and tears streaked down her cheeks.   
  


It was right then and there that he vanished.   
  


Willow froze. Oh, Goddess, what was wrong with her? Was she going looney now? Glory hadn't done the brain-sucking thing when she hadn't been looking, had she?   
  


She was going crazy. In public, no less.   
  


Terrified, she looked around like a deer in headlights. No one was staring at her, laughing or gaping in her general direction. In fact, unless she really was going nuts, no one had witnessed the scene she'd just enacted for their benefit.   
  


What was going on?   
  


Willow scrambled to pick up the books and notepads she'd dropped, and paused as a strange, tinkling sound came from the bushes. Laughter. Light, playful laughter. Oh, no, someone had seen it.   
  


She ran into her dorm faster than she'd ever moved in her entire life.   
  


She didn't notice the sparkling pinpricks of lights that danced in the bushes, and they faded after she made a run for it. But their giggles, maniacal and wicked if one could hear them, still rang out even after they'd gone.   
  


Mortals, as every faery knew, were such fun to play with. 

   [1]: 



End file.
